


the best interrogator

by VesperNexus



Category: The Spy Who Came in from the Cold - John Le Carré
Genre: Gen, Pre-Canon, jens is smart, mundt is terrible, sarcastic fiedler
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-01-03
Packaged: 2019-02-27 19:28:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13255080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VesperNexus/pseuds/VesperNexus
Summary: “I am more like your…” he licked his lips, looking away from his prisoner for a moment. A dangerous move, they both knew. He gave his Saxonian twang an enthusiastic lilt, “Your undertaker.”The German continued with a cheery smile.Jens really was the best interrogator.





	the best interrogator

**Author's Note:**

> i dont know where this came from it was just born  
> excuse the grammar and any inaccuracies/ inconsistencies im half-asleep
> 
> takes place pre-canon

There was a knock on the door. Thrice; succinct, measured, too often practiced.

Jens sighed quietly, leaning back into his chair. He didn’t raise his head, fingers easily weaving through the mess of papers on his desk.

“Come.”

The click of heels echoed right across the old floorboards. It was an even, well-balanced sound of a man who had been taught to walk with his feet neither too far apart, nor too close together.

“Herr Fiedler.”

Jens waited another moment, filing the papers neatly together before looking up. “Yes?”

He didn’t recognise the man standing stoically in front of his desk, uniform pressed to perfection, hair sleek. He might have been a decade older, shoulders painfully straight, the fold of his arms behind his back angled too precisely. He was too rigid to last, Jens thought, all in appearance and none in substance. _One of Mundt’s men, surely._

“Sir, you must have a turn with the Englishman who came into our acquisition two days ago. Barnette.”

Jens turned back to his papers, uninterested, “Is that so?”

“Yes.”

He blinked. One might grow to tire of this disrespect quickly.

“Hmm.” Jens began to slip the papers into an empty folder, careful not to crinkle any edges. They hadn’t cracked Barnette yet. With Mundt’s medieval methods, that was surely a miracle.

“Sir-”

“You are still here?”

“Y- yes, Sir.”

Jens thumbed through the plastic sleeves. He was growing sick of Mundt’s unapologetic demands. “I am afraid I have not the time today. Perhaps tomorrow.”

A moment of silence stretched. The man hadn’t moved. Jens was tempted to glare at him until he vanished into some puddle of entitlement and nationalism, but resisted the urge. He was proud of himself for doing so.

“Was there something else?” His words were spoken so softly, but carried through the small office.

“Sir, Herr Mundt has requested that you please interrogate the Englishman.” _That’s better._

Jens tilted his chin to finally look up at the stranger. The older man suddenly seemed painfully uncomfortable, as if the put-together façade was beginning to fade, and the shine of his black shoes was beginning to matte. _How long can you pretend to look down on me?_

 _No matter,_ he thought to himself, _I know exactly how to deal with you._ The quickening rise of a muscled chest, glistening lips, pulse rapidly thrumming through a shiny neck. The man was fighting the urge to shrug those broad shoulders.

Jens raised an eyebrow, eyes following the nervous swallow of a pale throat.  

“It’s really quite urgent, Sir. Herr Mundt would not have asked if-”

“If it is urgent,” Jens cut him off easily, “perhaps Herr Mundt could have come himself.”

“I – right.” He shifted uncomfortably, looking away for the briefest moment. Jens shook his head inwardly; _those polished shoes mean nothing if you do not know how to wear them._ “It’s just-”

Pause.

 _Say it. Even if it pains you._ “You are the best interrogator Sir.”

As if on cue, the door to his office was gently opened. The creak was loud, obnoxious, and Mundt’s pale shadow flitted right through the crack. _Always one for a dramatic entrance, hmm, Hans?_

The stranger spun on his heel, eyes widening at the sight of his superior.

“Sir-”

“Leave us Will,” oh, how Jens had missed that cold, uninviting sneer.

“Yes, Sir.” He turned back to Jens, nodding quickly. “Sir.”

Jens took no notice of him. With the light thud of the door, he sighed to the rhythm of panicked footsteps retreating down a bare corridor. As forgettable as the rest. Mundt never failed to disappoint.

“Your men are still far too feeble, Hans.”

Mundt’s expression was unimpressed, as usual. “I need you to interrogate Barnette.”

“So I have heard.”

“Fiedler, I haven’t the time for your petulance.” Jens turned back to his folder, papers finally neatly slotted into the worn sleeves. He checked that they were in order, carefully closing the cover and tucking it into the last drawer beneath his desk.

He folded his arms over the newly organised desk, fingers woven together. “Speak a little slower Hans, my petulance is getting the better of me.”

Mundt breathed through his nose, as if Jens couldn’t see the subtle clench of his fists. It might not have been proper of him, but it was so terribly difficult to resist. Jens had learned quickly when to play his cavalier attitude, and how melodic a tune to play it to.

“Barnette is in cell 8A. I need to know what he knows.” _Must you only speak in clichés?_ Jens didn’t reply. These were the moments he knew not to. “I need to know today.”

“You beat him senseless and he will not help you? Shocking.” Jens was far too familiar with that murderous glare to be afraid now. The way the veins in Mundt’s throat seemed to bulge, as if alive. The lines that grew to life on his forehead. He must have been so embarrassed; having condescended to asking _The Jew_ for help. “Send him in.”

Mundt hesitated. Jens loved catching him off guard. “Here?”

The older man turned an uncertain eye at the bookshelves lining the walls, the books spilling onto every flat surface. The neat chest of drawers and notepads, the steaming mug of tea by Jens’ elbow. It looked like a little library if nothing else.

He smiled. “Yes dear.”

A few years ago, Jens might have withered underneath that stare. The hardest blue eyes he’d ever seen.

“I will have him brought in. I want him back tonight.”

“Mmm hmm.”

 _One day,_ Jens thought. One day.

*

Barnette was easily twenty years his senior.

He had a hard, plain face, and his cheeks caved in. With skin the colour of an age-old mattress and as soft as sun-dried leather, he made for a very pretty image.

Jens stood from his chair as soon the guards brought him in.

“Leave us please,” Barnette’s glare burned a hole in his side.

The guards hesitated. “Sir, are you sure-”

“Yes. This will not take long.”

Jens met those dark, dangerous eyes of a man at the end of his rope. His face was bruised, blues and greens and purples fading beneath his tattered clothes.

“Wait,” he quickly added as they were leaving, “undo his handcuffs.”

“Sir-”

“Must I ask twice?”

“…No Sir.”

Jens smiled at the prisoner, and the prisoner sneered. There wasn’t even a look of relief as the metal shackles around his wrists came off, nor when Jens’ only protection flitted through the door and closed it behind them.

There was silence for a short moment as they were left alone, and Jens looked apologetic. He turned his back to Barnette, pulling up a chair in front of his desk.

“Sit, please, Mister Barnette.”

He walked around to the other side, fully aware of the hawk-eyes which followed his every move. Those well-trained, battered hands could have snapped his neck by now.

“Tea?”

“What’re you playing at, aye?”

His voice was rough, wasted by screams.

“I am simply offering you tea, Mister Barnette.”

“Go to hell.”

Jens’ lips upturned at one corner. He gently lowered himself into his own chair, folding one leg over the other as he waited.

“Take your time, Mister Barnette.” The other man looked around suspiciously, eyes flitting to the door as if expecting a trap to spring suddenly. “The guards are far away. They will not be interrupting us.”

Jens received a sneer in return as Barnette sat himself down, old bones creaking all the way.

“You’re all fucking cowards.”

“Perhaps.”

Barnette snorted. He seemed to still be taking in the odd office. “What’s this supposed to be then? Bad extremist, good extremist?”

Jens wrapped his thin fingers around the handle of his mug, drawing it towards him. He stirred in a teaspoon of white sugar. “That depends on you, Mister Barnette.”

“I could kill you.”

Jens tapped the teaspoon against the rim of the mug, before positioning it along the edge of the coaster. The warm smell of chamomile wafted through the office.

“I do not doubt it.”

He could see the rusted cogs turning in an exhausted mind as Barnette tried to figure out where he pulled his cards from. Jens sipped his tea.

“Are you sure you would not like any tea?”

“Fuck you.”

“A simple no would have sufficed,” he returned the mug to the coaster. “Now, Mister Barnette, Hans has told me you will not cooperate. Is this true?”

Silence. Jens met those hard eyes unflinchingly. No doubt Barnette could slither across the table, all six-foot and muscled, and wrap those powerful arms around his throat. He could crush Jens’ windpipe in a moment. But he hadn’t yet, not for a love of Jens, but because he was still gathering his energy.

Jens gave himself about six minutes.

“This will go a lot more smoothly if you answer my questions, Mister Barnette.”

“I’m not helping your fucking half-country.”

Jens nodded. “I see. Then, to answer your first question, Mister Barnette, I am not your good extremist.”

“No?” Barnette pressed his hands together. Five minutes.

“No,” Jens repeated. “I am more like your…” he licked his lips, looking away from his prisoner for a moment. A dangerous move, they both knew. He gave his Saxonian twang an enthusiastic lilt, “Your undertaker.”

His words were as unnerving as he’d intended, and Barnette unconsciously shifted in his chair for a moment, taken aback.

The German continued with a cheery smile. “I have had a terribly long day, Mister Barnette. I simply haven’t the time for you. So I will take your measurements, and you will be on your way. How does that sound?”

Three minutes. No response.

Jens leaned forward, within Barnette’s reach. His thin hands slid to the edge of the table where a manila folder waited for him. Leaning back into his chair casually, he thumbed it open. All he had to do was convince the little fish that Jens had something he wanted.

“Now, I will read through some basic information, and you may correct me if I am wrong.” He hadn’t the patience to wait for a response. “Name: Barnette L, James. Year of birth: nineteen twelve. Birthplace: Edinburgh, Scotland.”

He slid his fingers down the list, repeating only the important information. There was no reaction, not just yet. _To catch my fish, I must first muddy the water._

“Wife: Barnette, Amelia.” The slightest hitch of breath. It would have escape less practiced ears. “Year of birth: nineteen eighteen.” He skimmed down a few more lines, “Children: Barnette, Teresa. Barnette, Emily. Both female.”

He finally turned his face from the file, grabbing a pen to the folder. _Distract with easy facts and assumptions._ He focused again on the other man. Two minutes.

“Now, the information I have here is a little vague,” he looked sheepish. Barnette had paled. “Teresa is the eldest, sixteen years and Emily is – twelve?”

Silence.

“Twelve it is,” Jens murmured, noting it down. “Now, Teresa is the one who plays the piano, no?”

It is interesting, Jens had always thought, when a man’s world stops turning. He hadn’t the slightest idea if either of the girls played an instrument, but given Barnette’s wealthy disposition and the nature of English country life, it seemed a fair bet.

“You leave my children out of this.” A minute left. Jens had to reel Barnette in before his anger overshadowed his rationality. “You-”

“You must not make my job so difficult, Mister Barnette. Now,” Jens considered the Christian ideology which seemed to run rampant in Britain, “they are both still enrolled in private education?”

The man had gone red. _I am feeling lucky,_ Jens thought. What an easy man to read.

Jens spoke absentmindedly to himself, “The same Catholic school, of course…” _Catholic, not Christian._ He was almost surprised. With an occupation like his, surely the man was as much of an absent husband as he was an absent father. Another little assumption to give the illusion of knowledge. “I myself have always found Anglican schooling far more effective than Catholic, I know Amelia agrees, but she would never say anything of course…”

“I’m going to kill you.” _That you are,_ Jens turned back to his folder. He sighed. His tea was going to become cold. “I’m going to-”  

_I’m out of time._

“Now, is Teresa still considering Cambridge over Oxford?”

Pause. Jens hid his smile behind the rim of his mug.

“Yes or no answers will suffice. Personally, with a family name like Barnette I should highly recommend Ox-”

“How do you know about that?”

_Oh, I have you now, you foolish man._

_I know, Mister Barnette, because you are far too affluent for anything else. Because you are Oxford educated and your father is Oxford educated but your wife attended Cambridge, and with an absent father, of course the girl should take after her mother. I know, because these are silly, little details a child could have pieced together, but you are worn, and suspicious, and jumping at shadows. It is easy to blind a man who watches so closely._

“It is common knowledge, Mister Barnette,” he replies, as if it is common knowledge. “Now-”

“Stay away from my children.”

Jens noted down _Cambridge_ in a neat script. He made sure the other man could see. “Sorry?”

Barnette leaned forward slowly, hands hard against the edge of the table, knuckles white. There was a fury to his movements, a fury fuelled by a terrible, terrible desperation.

“They’re _children._ ”

Jens shook his head. “They are _your_ children, Mister Barnette. And you are mine, ergo,” that charming smile again, “ _they_ are mine.”

“You-”

“I tire of your insults, Mister Barnette.” A bored tone of voice. The bait was set. Now Jens needed to wait for his fish to bite. “I apologise if Hans did not make clear the nature of our surveillance on your family.” _I know nothing about your family, and you are too frightened to see that._ “Now, given the travel time from where your wife and daughters are currently staying to Oxford University, it is far more convenient-”

“Please.”

A bite. Now, to reel in the fish.

“Hmm?” Jens closed the folder. “Please what, Mister Barnette?”

“ _Please._ ”

He waited another long moment. The desperation seemed to shine so brightly now.

“Perhaps you could use more than one word, Mister Barnette…”

“Leave my children _alone._ ”

“…Oh.” Regret. _Gently now._ “I am so sorry Mister Barnette, that simply will not do.”

“They are _children_!”

“And children,” his tea was still pleasantly warm on his tongue, “take after their parents, Mister Barnette. Once you are gone, those clever little girls will search for answers. They are a spark, and I cannot put out one spark only for another to take its place.”

“I – _please-_ ” it was fascinating that Mundt had found this man so difficult to crack. Jens hadn’t even been at it for half an hour. “Fine – fine, fine, I’ll help you!”

The words seemed to have torn themselves from his throat, bloodying the corners of his lips. _I could have you now, or I could stretch you out a little longer._

Jens shook his head.

“I am afraid it is too late for that now, Mister Barnette. I told you, I am only your undertaker now.”

He may not openly admit it, but there was something thrilling about taking apart a man with words alone. Tearing down his convictions and defences will a few carefully constructed sentences; not knowing much but knowing enough to assume the rest. _I will reel you in very, very slowly._

“What?”

There was no colour in Barnette’s terrible face.

“I said I am only your undertaker now, Mister Barnette.”

The man began to vigorously shake his head. “No – no – that’s not what _this_ is – you’re doing this so I can _help_ you!”

“Oh, Mister Barnette…” Jens looked ever so regretful, his eyes soft and his voice softer, “I am afraid that offer has long since expired. I simply wanted you to confirm some details for me.” Barnette had lost his voice. Jens took another sip of his tea. “I suppose that will be all I will need.”

“ _Wait-_ ” the chair almost toppled as the Englishman stood, “there has to be something I can offer you!”

Jens leaned back a little more. He glanced at the watch on his wrist. “Mister Barnette, I really am sorry-”

“No! No I- I won’t-”

“I have told you already,” the slightest hint of irritation, “it has been a very busy day. You are not special to me, Mister Barnette. And really,” he lowered his voice almost conspiratorially, “nor are you very interesting compared to the others.”

“No, no you’re wrong! They don’t know about _Bright Star,_ or Viktor, or-”

Jens reeled and reeled his little fish, holding every word to memory. He hadn’t expected anything about _Bright Star._ Interesting.

And so Barnette spilled and spilled, mouth running faster than his mind, charged with the eternal fear that Jens would find no use for him.

Mundt had better be _very_ thankful.

*

“Fiedler.”

Jens glanced up from his book. “Hans-Dieter. How good of you to visit me.”

Mundt ignored his response. “Barnette has provided us with some very unexpected intelligence.”

“I know.”

“I should like to know what you said to him.”

His smile was very real. “I suppose my petulance brings out the best in people, Ja, Hans?”

The door thudded shut quietly, and Jens turned back to his book.


End file.
